


Operation Lazarus

by AnnaofAza



Category: Kingsman (Movies)
Genre: Gen, Kingsman 2 Spoilers?, Post-Movie(s), Surgery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-18
Updated: 2017-04-18
Packaged: 2018-10-20 17:28:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10667391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnaofAza/pseuds/AnnaofAza
Summary: Poppy prepares to remake.





	Operation Lazarus

Her hair is tied back into a bun coiled at the back of her neck. Bright white latex gloves are snapped over her shiny red nails. The tools are sterilized and polished to a gleaming silver shine. The door is firmly shut and will never open unless it hears her voice.

Everything is ready.

“Poor darling,” Poppy coos, “poor, poor darling. They left you out there in this hot Kentucky sun, hm? Flies buzzing, brains baking out on the concrete, blood trickling onto your nice suit? Not very nice. Not very nice at all.”

The scalpel slices cleanly through—a nice, neat cut. The machines buzz and hum, and occasionally, Poppy glances at the heart monitor beeping steadily. All is well. All is going well. It’s always a bit nerve-wracking when the patient is first put under. Why, her first few attempts had been disasters, poor things. But she’d studied and trained and worked harder than she ever did in her life, and look at what she’s accomplished!

They’d be sorry. They’d all be sorry. They didn’t think she was good enough? They didn’t think any of them were? Well, she’d show them.

“Such interesting things that Hesketh boy told me,” she continues, sweet as her world famous maltshakes. “Your babblings made a bit more sense after that. Modern knights, suits, gadgets. You Brits are eccentric, aren’t you?” She pauses, considering, then reaches for one of the pieces on the table. “But now I know your name. Alliterative. Dashing.”

Poppy begins to build—tiny, almost invisible wires and deceptively fragile bits of metal—and hums “American Girl” as she works. She peels the skin, slices and cauterizes organs, inserts more and more into the body, chest rising and falling softly. This will be her greatest work. Invulnerability and immortality, all in a nice, controlled package. Pity she can’t do this with herself, but she doesn’t trust anyone else to do this correctly.

“I’ve been developing this for years,” Poppy says, allowing herself a boast. “Years and years. You’re my first…final draft, as it were. The perfect specimen. I have such plans for you. Such marvelous plans.”  

Blood sluggishly slips down her gloves when she pulls away, briefly studying the tablet attached to the bed, a painstakingly-sketched diagram on the screen.

“Not bad yet,” Poppy murmurs. “We still have a few hours to go, don’t we? Don’t go dying on me now,” she continues, then begins folding the skin back into place, reaching for another one of her clever tools, one that will seal everything together with precision. “It was very inconvenient the last time. But I think I’ll add some insurance. Something that will prevent…outright rebellion. I don’t expect you to be _completely_ obedient. I do want you to be able to think for yourself, analyze new situations, draw on your experiences. What use is a lobotomized robot?”

Finishing, she changes into new gloves, then traces the shaven area, pale and vulnerable. His eyes are closed, and he looks peaceful when Poppy cuts into his skull.

“This is the tricky part,” she warns. “Hang in there. After this, you can rest. I have such a lovely room prepared for you. Very homey.”

It’s like slicing into Jell-o, but with more irregular texture. It hadn’t swelled too much, and she was able to save him before those cowboy spies—or death—snatched him up. He’d been kept in recovery, Poppy planning and praying, and she’d waited until she was a hundred percent sure before preparing for the operation. She had high hopes for him—maybe too high—but this was perfect.

Oh, V-Day had been tragic, so tragic. But this time, she can show the world what she can do—build. Fix the broken—not the same as ever, of course—but close enough. It hadn’t been her original plan, but what’s just a simple revenge plot? Might as well try to fix the world while she’s at it. They’ll love her for this, love her forever.

Her hands move fast, and before she knows it, everything’s in place, wired and coded. Poppy finishes the last touches, then nods in approval. He won’t be woken up right away; it will have to be in degrees, then slowly introduce the physical therapy, the training, the conditioning. Hesketh may be impatient, but Poppy’s learned to wait for the right moment to strike. What’s a few more months for perfection?

Poppy steps back, gloves on her hips. Her apron is securely tied around her waist, and in one of the pockets is a special device. Valentine might have been clever, but there was so much more you could do with emotions more than a searing, brainless rage. It was subtler, yes, and had human error, but it was so much more precise and effective, especially with the help of her biochemical cocktails. A vial, in fact, was tucked neatly into a bomb with a certain organization’s name written on it.

And it will all begin. But first…

“My Lazurus,” she sings, then activates the body lying on the cold, steel table. “Wake up.”


End file.
